


And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Kisses, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Scotland Yard, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 12:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21903199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Facing another Christmas alone, Holmes finally accepts an invitation.This is part of a Victorian AU. Each part is an individual story, but may make more sense if read as part of the series.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

At just over three, little Rose Watson was old enough now to understand the true meaning of Christmas: dolls, and a new dress. _A charming terrorist,_ Watson explained.

“My dear Captain Watson,” I said, chuckling, “it’s easy to see who is in command of your house.” I felt a pang saying _your house._ Another Christmas alone at Baker Street.

“Any plans for tonight?” he asked, putting his coat on.

“You’ll be surprised,” I replied. “Lestrade has invited me to the Scotland Yard gathering, and I plan to attend.”

He was properly amazed. “You? The most unsociable man in London, going to a party? With dancing, and singing, refreshments, and— dare I say it— games?”

I shrugged. “Mrs Hudson says I don’t get out enough. Since she’s gone to stay with her sister this year, she insisted that I accept the invitation.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Well, I suppose we’ll be busy with the tiny tyrant. The Forresters are in town, and Mary’s invited them for dinner tonight. Rosie will no doubt charm them into thinking she’s not a terrorist.”

“No doubt,” I replied, laughing. “After all, she is my goddaughter.”

Hesitantly, he returned my smile. “You’ll come for dinner on Christmas, won’t you?”

For three Christmases, I’d made my excuses, claimed I was going to see my mother, or that my brother had roped me into something. It was difficult to see my lover’s happy little family doing what happy families do best— fussing and arguing and catering to the whims of the youngest member. It was an obvious reminder that he had responsibilities that did not include me. I felt superfluous.

“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to come up with a reasonable excuse. “It’s… you need some time with them. Family time. Rose should have her father and mother all to herself on Christmas.”

“You’re family, Holmes.” His eyes were sad. “You will always be my family.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

At five o’clock, I put on my best suit, not at all enthused about the evening ahead of me. I didn’t intend to stay at the party for long, just enough to show I was making an effort. Lestrade is a kind man, and I think he’d understood my loneliness since Watson moved out. He didn’t know, of course, that Watson’s marriage was a dodge to avoid the suspicious eyes that seemed to be looking at confirmed bachelors these days. The looks he gave me were sympathetic.

The streets were crowded as I made my way out to catch a cab. Part of the nostalgia of the Yule is, I think, that we’re always comparing it to other Christmases that have faded into a rosy, fire-lit glow. Our memories are selective, preferring the happy moments to all others, and feeling the distance with longing.

With Watson, Christmas Eve had always meant evening services at St Mary’s, just a short walk from our home. He preferred that service, the Nine Lessons and Carols, to the one on Christmas morning simply because he disliked sermons. And he loved to sing, though rarely did. I went with him just to hear his lovely voice.

Our habit was to return home to a late supper by the hearth, the warmth of the fire making us a bit sleepy. I would play my violin for him, and we would retire to bed.

Thinking of this made me ache a bit. Times change, and we will always prefer the warm and comfortable past to the cold and unknown future. I had made my peace with our arrangement, but tonight I needed to distract myself. I hailed a cab.

Once I arrived at the hall where the party was to be held, I stayed on the periphery. The men who were married had brought their wives, for this festivity was the Yard’s gift to all of its foot soldiers. A few had brought sweethearts. And there were those like me, lonely bachelors who were partnerless.

I found a table and sat, sipping mulled wine.

One of the younger sergeants sidled over to me and asked if he could join me.

“Mr Holmes,” he said. “I’m Jones. Roddy Jones.”

“I remember.” In truth, I had made no effort to remember his name.What I did recall was the way he kept hovering around Watson at the last crime scene we visited.

“Dr Watson is not here this evening?”

“He was unable to get away,” I replied.

“A shame,” he said. “The doctor’s a fine man. I imagine you miss having him at hand.”

“He makes himself available when needed.” I’d already drawn my conclusions about Mr Jones, and had my suspicions about where this conversation was going. “I have no complaints.” I smiled pleasantly.

“Ah, but you must be lonely. Living together as long as you did, I imagine it was a surprise when he married.”

“Not really. He had always expressed the intention of marrying some day.”

He nodded, and fell silent for some minutes. The band started playing a polka and couples began to dance. There was a surplus of men, which was a good thing as far as I was concerned. The last thing I wanted was to be conscripted into joining a polka.

“But still,” Jones finally said. “You must regret the loss of his companionship. Many men join clubs, I believe, for this very reason. Whatever the charms of feminine society, male company is always comfortable. A man like you, having chosen not to marry, might prefer it.”

“What is your point, Mr Jones?”

He smiled affably. “I only mean to say that you must sometimes crave company.”

“Must I?”

“Of course. And you might consider seeking out... a new companion. There are clubs where you might easily find such a person.”

I watched the bobbing lines of dancers circling around the floor. “Are there?”

Now his smile was conspiratorial. “Indeed. I wonder that you do not know of such places.”

“Mr Jones,” I said. “I suggest that you stop talking and enjoy the music.”

“Mr Holmes, I am only saying—“

“Dr Watson is my friend. A finer man you will not find. Contrary to what you may believe, he remains my friend.”

He frowned. “I have offended you.”

“You overestimate yourself, Mr Jones. It would take a much more intelligent man than you to offend me.”

At that moment, I felt a heavy hand come down on my shoulder.

“Mr Jones,” said Lestrade. “Go find someone else to bother. Mr Holmes is here at my invitation, and I would like a word with him.”

My mood lightened the moment Jones walked away. “He serves a purpose, Lestrade. By comparison, your company is delightful.”

The inspector had the decency to laugh at that. “So, you’re not here because I nagged you to come. It was actually my delightful company that brought you out tonight.”

“Perhaps, though you are not as scintillating as the monograph on ink viscosity that I was reading earlier. I thank you, however, for warding off Mr Jones, who is a scoundrel of the worst kind.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“What has he said that has so provoked you, if I may ask?”

“He suggests that I may want company now that I’ve been abandoned.”

“Company?” Lestrade was frowning. He lowered his voice. “Was he, erm, propositioning you?”

“Not directly. His method is to imply that he prefers male company, when his real goal is to entrap men naive enough to think he is one of them.”

“He’s not...?”

“No. He comes in sheep’s clothing, but his wolfish ambition seeks advancement by exposing inverts.”

Lestrade sighed. “I’m afraid we can expect to see more like him. It’s a hard law to enforce, given the difficulty of proving... well, it’s a bad law. Morally irresponsible, politically useful to certain people.”

“You’re a good man, Lestrade.” I stood, extending my hand. “I hope you’ll wish your wife and children a happy Christmas from me. Dr Watson sends regards, as always. And now, I think I’ve had my dose of conviviality and will head home to my warm fire and a cigar.” 

Smiling, he took my hand. “Glad to have you with us, Holmes. Merry Christmas.”

In the cab on the way back to Marylebone, it occurred to me that it was not too late for Christmas Eve services. I would go tonight, I decided. It would put me out of my pique and into a mood, if not joyous, at least calmer. I had the cab drop me on Baker Street, then walked. Snow was falling, and my heart, though lonely, was at peace.

I sat alone in the pew Watson had always preferred, surrounded by late worshippers who would return home to celebrate with their families. I had missed the first lessons; they were now on Isaiah. As I listened, I wondered what the prophet would make of our current state of affairs. 

_The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined… For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given… Of the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end, upon the throne of David, and upon his kingdom, to order it, and to establish it with judgment and with justice from henceforth even for ever. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will perform this._

I pondered the changes I had observed within our own government, a zeal towards judgment, but not necessarily justice. I thought of Watson, the most fair-minded and ethical man I have ever known, and I wished that the world would simply come to its senses, see us for the men we were, instead of defining us by whom we chose to love. 

_The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid… and a little child shall lead them._

That would be quite a day, I thought, when wolves like Mr Jones would cease preying on lambs, and begin to tolerate them.

The organ began to play _Divinum Mysterium. _I closed my eyes and felt a warm presence slip in beside me. He tucked his arm under mine, found my hand and squeezed it. I heard him raise his voice in the plainsong:

_He the source, the ending He,_

_Of the things that are, that have been,_

_And that future years shall see,_

_Evermore and evermore._

I knew that hand as well as my own. Raising my eyes, I saw him smiling at me. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

* * * * *

I told Holmes that his goddaughter had become a terror, and this was not far from the truth. Mary blamed me for spoiling her, but I found it very hard to refuse my little tyrant.

The Forresters arrived at five, and Rose, wearing her new dress, was allowed to greet them before being sent off to bed. Bessie, the maid, was in charge of this task, and whisked her away once Mr and Mrs Forrester had called her an angel and given her a present, which was to be placed under the Christmas tree, awaiting the morning.

That was the beginning of the trouble. I suppose that the Forresters, having had Mary raise their children past the age of tantrums, did not understand that expecting a three year old to sleep while trying not to think of the lovely present waiting under the tree was simply impossible.

Rosie cried, and I suggested that maybe it wouldn’t hurt if we let her open just the one gift— but Mary, having more experience with tantrums than I, said that indulging her would only make things worse in the long run.

I was thinking of the short run— getting through dinner and the rest of the evening. From the sitting room, we could hear her wails, trailing into sobs. I know my daughter; she does not give up easily. When I could stand it no more, I told Mary I’d just pop into the nursery and say goodnight, maybe sing her a song.

Three songs and two stories later, I’d convinced her to go to sleep by suggesting that Father Christmas might avoid our house if he knew that little girls were still awake.

I joined dinner, already in progress, and tried to work my way into the conversation, but my mind drifted. Mary kept glancing at me, and I knew from the set of her mouth that she was displeased.

The Forresters made their excuses soon after dinner was over. They were going over to her sister’s, where their youngest boy was staying. I was glad they were leaving early, but made polite noises, indicating what a treat it had been to see them.

Once the door was closed, we carried the dishes into the kitchen. We’d sent the cook home to her family after dinner was served, so I began to fill the sink to wash the dishes.

“Leave it,” Mary said abruptly. “Bessie will do it.”

I paused, my hands in the water. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear hearing her cry.”

“I suppose one of us has to be the indulgent parent.” Sighing, she took the towel and dried my hands. When they were dry, she held on, looking down at them.

“You can still make it to church,” she said after a long moment. “You mentioned it last year, that you like the evening service, that you hadn’t been since Rose was born.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t need to—“

“Some things are worth keeping, John,” she replied.

St Mary’s, of course, was my destination, though farther away than our parish church in Kensington. There was nowhere else I could consider going on this evening than the church where Holmes had sat at my side on former Christmas Eves.

I stole into the service, already underway, as they were beginning to sing _Divinum Mysterium_. I brushed snow off of my coat and headed up the side aisle, but stopped in amazement when I saw who was in the pew we always occupied.

Taking my place at his side, I smiled at his surprise and slipped my hand under his arm.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered.

The snow drifted lazily around us as we walked from the church.

“I did not expect to see you tonight,” he said.

“I miss this.” What I missed was _us,_ but that couldn’t be said aloud.

We stood outside 221B. “Will you come in for a bit?” he asked.

“I would like that, yes.”

We knocked the snow off our boots and shook off our coats before hanging them on the pegs by the door. The building was quiet, Mrs Hudson having left for her sister’s home that morning. The odor of cinnamon and molasses hung in the empty stairwell, the last vestiges of her baking spree. It felt like years ago, before I’d left, when Christmas was still the two of us, sitting in front of a fire, sharing a drink and companionable silence.

“I hope she left us something,” I said. “A few mince pies, perhaps?”

He smiled. “That dear lady would not be so cruel as to leave the aroma without any substance. She has provided us with an assortment of pies, as well as enough fruit, bread, and meat to feed an army.”

He poured us each some brandy and we settled into our chairs to enjoy the pies. When there was nothing but crumbs left on the plate, I sighed and settled back, smiling.

We did not speak.

“I would not recognise myself,” he said. I did not need to ask what he meant. He was remembering our first Christmas together, nine years earlier. Tears stood in his eyes, but he smiled as he wiped them. “Look how sentimental I’ve become, John. I suppose the years lend nostalgia to all our memories.”

“My dear boy,” I said, my own eyes filling.

He sighed and set his glass on the table. “You cannot stay.”

“I am expected home tonight, but I will stay a bit longer. And Mary is leaving Friday to see some old school friends in Edinburgh. She’ll be taking Rosie with her, so I’ll be entirely at your disposal for a fortnight at least.”

He stood and poured me more brandy, took up his violin and prepared to play. “You missed the opening carols,” he said, “so I shall play them for you now.” Beginning with _Once in Royal David’s City_, he went on to _In Dulci Jubilo_,_ Angels From the Realms of Glory_, and finally, _Hark, the Herald Angels Sing._

It was midnight, and we could hear the bells beginning their jubilation. Holmes opened the window, letting in the cold air and the riotous pealing from all the neighbouring steeples. I stood with him, listening.

After several minutes, the last echoes died out and all was silent once more. _Peace on earth, good will toward men._

Holmes shut the window and drew the curtains. Only then did we embrace.

Christmas morning arrived before I was ready. It had been long past midnight when I finally made it home to my sleeping household in time to catch a few hours of sleep. Before the sun had even peeped over the horizon, I heard Rosie singing in her crib. I took her in my arms and tried to placate her for a bit, but she was having none of it, insisting that there was a new dolly waiting under the tree for her. Her complaints grew louder, and Mary was soon up as well, and then the festivities began in earnest.

The dolly was discovered and introduced to us as Polly. Mary had insisted that a three year old was too young for porcelain, but Rosie did not seem to mind that Polly was a rag doll. After walking her around the room for twenty minutes, she began pulling off her dress and pretending to examine her like a doctor. I had shown her my stethoscope once, and she had been amazed to hear her own heart beating. Mary had embroidered a heart on the doll’s chest, which prompted her to ask for my stethoscope so she could listen. For a while this occupied her. Then she decided her dolly needed a nap.

Mary and I had decided not to splurge on presents for one another, though she had wrapped up some new shirts for me and some stockings for herself. It felt rather sterile to do gifts this way, but she was a practical woman and saw no point in us spending more than we could afford on things we didn’t need, as she put it.

I settled into my chair with a well-deserved cup of coffee, hoping to read the newspaper. Mary was in the kitchen helping Emma, our cook, and Bessie, the maid, with dinner preparations. Rosie climbed into my lap with a demand to put Polly’s dress back on her now that her nap was over, and I was attempting to wrangle the tiny buttons into their holes when the bell rang.

I called into the kitchen that I would answer it and headed into the hall. Rosie toddled after me.

There on my doorstep stood Holmes, holding a bottle of wine and a wrapped package that looked like it might contain a sibling for Polly.

“I hope…” he began. “I should have…”

“Come in,” I said, pulling him over the threshold. “No apologies. You’re always welcome here.”

Handing me the wine, he knelt down and showed his package to Rosie, whose eyes grew large. Uncharacteristically shy, she clung to my leg.

“Rosie, this is your god-papa,” I said.

Her eyes went from the package to him and back again. “Papa,” she said. I thought she would take the package, but instead she planted a kiss on his cheek.

Only then did she reach for the package and begin ripping the paper off.

I looked at him. His eyes were soft, his smile gentle. I reminded myself that small children always made Holmes a bit awkward. He did not look uncomfortable now, though. I remembered how he had held her when she was baptised, how he whispered in her ear when she cried and told her things that were meant only for her to hear.

Sensing my gaze, he raised his eyes to mine.

“Thank you.” Leaning towards him, I brushed my lips against his.

Rosie had finally extricated her new doll from the paper. With a joyous shriek, she ran towards the kitchen, calling, “Mummy! Mummy! _Two_ dollies!”

Holmes pulled me to my feet and put his arms around me. “Merry Christmas, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't planned on a Christmas episode in this series, but needed some bittersweet fluff before the angst returns. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> The lessons read are from the book of Isaiah, the 9th and 11th chapters.


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